


Phoenix Burning

by LadyGrey (idioticintentions)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: I APOLOGIZE, M/M, Pretty boys crying is a weakness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 12:11:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12320829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idioticintentions/pseuds/LadyGrey
Summary: Bond dies.But he's done it before, hasn't he? Dies and comes back. Q just asks him to do it once more.





	Phoenix Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Song-spiration is Can't Let Go by Caught a Ghost.

Grinding gears. Playing cards being shuffled. The sounds mix into a whir of white noise that eat through Q's brain waves with mindless efficiency. His fingers flutter above the keys. His palms itch to be pressed to his ears. But there are no barriers that could be erected to keep this noise out. It rushes from deep within him. Grinding gears. Shuffling cards. And the staccatto thump. thump. thump. of his rabbit heart.

The mission had gone sideways only five minutes ago. The facility was research and development for a known arms connoisseur. A gear head. A gambler. It was the beastly pet of a man with too much money and intellect for boring to ever enter his vocabulary. Bond was meant to steal files on the database, left unguarded by the wealthy man's liberal use of contractors.

In and out. Security card obtained by a turncoat--or whom they had assumed was a turncoat but now Q is not too sure. They had been following the Commandante for far too long, the rat clawing from the garbage they had been sifting through like a _deus ex machina_. They shouldn't have trusted him. They should have known.

Bond is now somewhere in the water. The weapon--god only knows what kind--having hit him and his Kevlar with sonic force. The smack of Bond hitting the bridge's cement barrier was audible through the earwig. The sound of him hitting the river far too quiet. Water rushed for a moment.

Then Q's mind went offline. His mouth was still moving, he could hear it shouting in another dimension, in another place for 007 to report. He heard R, distantly, trying to keep him up to date on her attempts to reroute a satellite to get eyes on the situation. The other technicians were chirruping their own status, casting lifelines into the stormy ocean Q finds himself caught in.

Above all that, though, he hears the sound of his own futility. No key stroke can save him. It's all a game of luck and hoping the world would let Bond resurrect just one more time.

When he sips his early grey, it tastes salty.

~~

Moneypenny approaches him as one approaches a wild animal. The monitors were given to R an hour ago, Q crowded off with an over-sized, knit blanket to an empty desk and seat. Another Earl Grey was set beside him with too much cream, and he sips at it absently. He tastes nothing but sand on his tongue.

Probably what Bond is tasting. On the bottom of the English channel, if the current map of the river was to be believed. Tasting sand and salt and the heavy flavor of death too soon. Q can taste it. It leaves him heavy, swollen, and all too small to handle all of it

"Hullo," Eve greets with a soft smile. There is tension in her brow, a small pinch, and Q concentrates on that rather than her sad eyes. "Rough day?"

Q nods. He doesn't trust his voice. Doesn't trust himself. With shaking hands, he pulls the blanket around him tighter. Because it's not just an agent lost. He realizes. It rushes through him like waves unleashed from a storm's swell. He knows why this hits so hard and close and rough. Eve knows as well, resting a hand on his shoulder, firmly ignoring his shudder.

"He was a good agent." she intones. Not a good man--no one could really say that of him. Q certainly couldn't. But he could say other things. Bond was reckless. And stubborn. And careless with anything more complicated than a knife. He was also one of the few that visited Q on those late nights. The only field agent that he would have long, rambling conversations with during stake outs.

He was one of Q's very few friends at MI:6. And no one seemed to realize that, which stung much more than he had expected. Even Moneypenny, sympathy clear on her face and gestures so friendly; has that soft confusion of why was it this time that broke him. Why was it Bond?

And Q wishes he knew those answers. But all he knows is he's cold and unable to take the earpiece from his ear, waiting for it to click back to life and 007's whiskey smoke of a voice to whisper "I'm back"

Eve sits just beside him, pulling a chair from a neighboring desk. She divests him of his headset carefully. Then she pulls the blanket from him, exchanging it for his parka. Q takes it with dead fingers. Digits so refined, used to complex coding, fumble dumbly with the jacket. He pulls it on awkwardly and sits with his arms crossed so that it pushes up, obscuring his face.

"M authorized you for a few days. Three, to be exact. Takes you to the weeked. R will cover here."

Q finds his voice. But it doesn't sound like him. It sounds rather like a broken machine squealing to life one last time because someone thumped it hard enough. "Thank you. But that seems over much."

"Does it?" Eve asks, unable to hold back the soft, sad giggle.

Q catches himself smiling. Still cold. Still broken. But still working. He blushes and looks Eve in the eye. "Thank you," he mouths, his voice deserting him.

She smiles, pulling her phone out and typing something. "Go home. A car service is waiting in the carpark for you. And it will pick you up Monday. Your access badge--." a hard tap on her screen that has Q flinching"--is suspended until then, so no getting back in before you're rested and feeling better."

To Q's surprise, she wraps him in a hug. She smells of apples and cinnamon and he finds himself clinging to her shoulders despite himself. "If you need anything," she says in his ear, "give me a call and I'll be by. I'm stopping by anyway Friday to make sure you're eating." She leans back and playfully pinches his cheek. "I'm afraid you're just a meal away from starving to death."

He smiles, nods, and she indulges him one last swift hug.

The ride to his flat is as monotonous as his thoughts had turned. At first it was all grinding gears, spinning of wheels, and cards flying through the air for a despairing game of 52 pick up. It had also been gunshots. The soft intake of Bond's breath. And the whispered "I've been hit" just as the water rose to swallow even those last words.

The driver has to rouse him from a soft, shaky sleep. Q stumbles from the car. He waits until it has turned the corner before he opens his door.

The lights of the hallway flick on as he steps within; the narrow, crowded stair case rising up and up. His ascent is slow, labored. The weight of the past few hours squeezes his lungs like a vice. The fact he is truly alone pulls his vertebrae from his spine. Boneless, breathless, he finds the keyhole to his flat with a graceless fumble. The lights stay off as he sinks into a routine.  
Turn kettle on. Prepare the tea. Browse UberEats for what to order. Decide he doesn't want any of it and debate whether Early Grey with enough cream and sugar could be considered a meal.

Amidst the debate, while he googles the caloric value of sugar, he believes he hears the soft shush of the window being opened. His closed bedroom door does well to mute the sound, but Q feels a prickly sensation on the back of his neck.

Suddenly something is not quite right.

Stubborn to not give into the lurking paranoia because, really, any feeling is dangerous right now. He is on the cusp of deep, dark, never ending despair. Better to stay on task and routine than fantasize Bond coming into his flat. Better to ignore the flutter of hope that this time, just like last time, Bond is not dead.

After ordering lamb vindaloo, Q gives into his curiosity. He checks his flat over, waiting for piercing blue eyes to catch him from the shadows. But it never comes. Only ghosts greet him and he ends up crying big fat tears into his curry.

Friday, Eve comes to visit. Q's apartment is almost unrecognizable under the plethora of drafting paper and pens. Designs for new weaponry, better armor, and finally fucking waterproof communication is spread all over. Manic eyes greet her from the biggest pile, Q jumping to thrust a particularly complex design in her direction. "I think i figured it out." He jitters, the caffeine pushing his voice high and tight. Grief clings below his eyes like mud.

For a time, Eve amuses him. She listens to him chatter. She helps him sort after some gentle direction. Once the couch is uncovered, they sit side by side, the incessant stream Q had been talking before seeming to have run its course. With sad, big eyes, he watches his computer on the coffee table; closed with just the red light of 'low battery' blinking below the lip of the lid.

"I should know better than most that field agents aren't invincible." Eve states. "But I thought Bond was. I keep thinking he's going to just pop in and laugh at all of us for thinking he was dead."

"It'd be a bloody good joke." Q says waspishly. His voice is rough now. There are tears on his tongue and how can one person cry so much? Q was Quartermaster of MI6. A success story for the ages. And here he is, reduced to a petulant five year old because his agent had to go and get himself killed. A rather common occupational hazard for all of them.

But not Bond. They had all assumed Bond was above death.

Q sobers. "I'll be more prepared. Next time. If we had something that could have deflected the bullet or survived that...plunge...we would know for certain and know better."

"Logical," Eve agrees. Her usual turn of phrase is absent. The mischief that dances in her eyes is flat. She watches Q from the corner of her eye. "How about we watch a film." she suggests.

Q nods.

They spend the evening watching a movie about a woman having the devil's baby. It's outlandish. Old as fuck. And so far from what they're dealing with that Q can find hardly any resemblance to his life in it. Eve takes the trash full of takeaway with her, giving him a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing into the night. For a moment, Q searches the shadows, but mentally berates himself when he realizes what he's looking for.

He sleeps on the couch. The incessant thought that someone is climbing through his bedroom window difficult to ignore if he is in that room. And god knows he needs some sleep.  
It's fitful. It's broken. And when he wakes, he curls into his bed with a strangled whimper. Because while the sleep had been bad, it must have been better than this. And his heart breaks for a love he never had the chance to have.

He should have told him. He should have flirted back. He should have just reached a few more inches on those weapon hand offs.  
So many missed opportunities and all the next ones: gone.

But that realization seems to fly out the window when Q very suddenly remembers he fell asleep on the couch and NOT his bed. But here he is, curled in his blankets. He freezes, tenses, and feels everything in him go bow string taut when he can hear the shower running.

Eve is the only one who has been to his flat. Sure Tanner or M probably has, but Q knows only Eve would allow herself to be caught out. But Eve, as wonderful as she is, would not have made the bother to move him from couch to bed. She would have taken the bed if she were staying--a fine enough price for Q to pay since he forced her to listen to his delirious, grief induced ramblings yesterday.

So who, pray tell, moved him and is taking a bloody shower?

The curiosity doesn't last long. The water stops in the en-suite bathroom. Moments later, the door opens and steam billows out. Q watches with fear twisting his gut and anticipation tickling his skin as a very male and still very naked, aside from the towel slung around the hips, form steps out. James Bond has the audacity to wink and Q just whimpers.

The missing agent drapes himself along the doorjamb. His hair is short and ruffled from him clearly drying it the towel moments ago. The light halos his water slicked shoulders. An angry bullet wound is in his left one. Mottled bruises crisscross his chest and abdomen. His legs, obscured mainly by the towel and the shadow, sport similar, violent bruises.

Q swallows, mouth dry. "007?" he asks, cautiously. No movement. That same smirk and playfulness in the electric blue eyes. Q prays when he whispers "James?"

Finally deciding that as a suitable summons, James crosses the floor. He brings a knee-slightly swollen, scarred- onto the bed and leans forward to touch the side of Q's face with a calloused hand. The Quartermaster has no idea which way to look, torn between the deep burning in Bond's eyes and the preview of flesh the towel has opened to reveal on Bond's leg. Water slides down James' arm and to his fingertips. Q tells himself that's what it must be causing the wetness on his cheek--he can't be crying.

They exist in an aching, empty space for awhile. Bond rubs his thumb on Q's cheekbone. Q takes in the sight before him like a starving man savoring his first and last meal. With hesitation borne from the injuries Bond is obviously sporting, Q gingerly brushes his fingers over the new, scarring bullet wound. It's the one that sent James into the water. The one that literally pushed him over the edge.

For a crazed moment, Q imagines digging it out, pulling the wound from the flesh, but it passes. Bond presses a soft kiss to his temple. "I thought you were dead." Q offers, his voice trembling. Another kiss, just below his eye, and he wonders if James can taste the salt on his lips. "You died James."

"I tend to do that," Bond rumbles. His jaw has two day old stubble on it. It chafes as he kisses down Q's jaw to finally capture his mouth. It's soft and slow. It's chaste. That is until Q, without thinking, lays his palm flat on the wound and Bond groans. He draws back, ready to apologize, but Bond is swooping back in.

The kiss turns hungry and heated. Large hands maneuver Q onto his back and towards the center of the bed. The covers disappear between them, replaced by Bond's body heat settling between Q's thighs. Fingers deftly go beneath his shirt, thumbs tracing the contours of Q's ribs. He expects Bond to complain--call him skinny or just a kid--but all he gets is a whispered groan into his mouth of "beautiful."

Emboldened by the praise, Q draws up one leg to tuck it behind Bond's knees and then draws him in closer. Bond leans onto his elbows, dropping his hips so that they grind into Q's pants clad ones. The fabric of the towel is rough and electrifying. Q groans.

They continue like that, laving intermittent praise and slow, soft movements. That is until Q grows impatient and he moves his hands from Bond's shoulders to his hips where he gets a hold of that towel. Bond smirks against Q's throat, where he has been laving open-mouthed kisses. "Now there that's young thing I've missed."

Q rolls his eyes, struggling with the towel that should not be that difficult. Bond helps by pulling back to his knees and getting the towel off with a flourish. He tosses it away then does the same to Q's shirt. When he reaches for Q's pants, Q catches his hands at his hem. Suddenly, he is not too sure.

Because Bond is beautiful. Crouched over him like a lion, all power and beauty. Then there is Q, who never thought about what animal to compare himself to but flighty bird had been tossed around, and he is actually embarrassed. "I can't." he admits.

Bond raises an eyebrow, hands beginning to withdraw, but Q pulls them back. "No I can," Q corrects, biting his lip. Bond's laugh rumbles low in his chest and he leans in to press a kiss to the furrow in Q's brow.

"Yes you can darling. But only if you lose the pants. Now I don't need to fuck you. You can fuck me if you'd rather."

Desire, hot and swift, burns through all of Q's veins. Being fucked by Bond had been all of his fantasies for so long, but now he supposes 'fucking James Bond' can get added to that list.  
"But either way darling, we really must get you undressed."

Bond is pressing kisses down his throat then across his chest. He latches onto one dusky brown nipple, giving it a playful bite before sucking it. Q releases Bond's hands as his body arches of its own accord. He pushes his head into the pillow as his chest is drawn towards Bond, a hot hand pressing into his spine. The other, Q loses track of until, moments later, he realizes his pants are gone and James' hot palm is on him, pressing and stroking.

"You sneaky bastard," Q whinges without much passion.

Bond laughs into his breast bone before catching Q's wide mouth in a bruising kiss.

His fingers stroke him to fullness, heat curling like a lazy cat in the pit of Q's stomach. Those same fingers begin to push further back, until they are gentle but insistent at his most private place. Bond's mouth continues to distract him as it laves attention his stomach. But he finds a thought among the haze and half grunts half moans "top drawer, on the left."

A quick nod and then the warmth is gone. Q feels empty. He itches with desire but that grief, which had settled so bone deep over the past few days, still hums beneath his skin. He finds himself reaching for Bond as the double 0 stretches to reach the lube. For a moment, Q imagines his skin slick with something other than sweat. He imagines the smell of the channel and gun powder.

He pulls Bond back to him. He manages to resist long enough to get deft fingers around the lube and condom. Then he is brought back with a controlled fall, twisting and pulling so Q lays above him. Q immediately tucks his face into the crook of his neck, biting kisses into the line of Bond's throat. "I missed you. I missed you so much." He admits in a moment of weakness he never allowed himself. But he realizes he should have. He should have done so much, too scared of rejection and protocol to dare.

However, in their line of work, they are all a day away from dying; for Bond, probably just a matter of seconds. Self control is appreciated, but it should not be the bondage it tends to be. Q sucks a particularly bruising kiss to Bond's collarbone, biting at the end. "Mine," he whispers in to abused flesh, the kiss mark a more violent color than the bruises around it.

The snick of the lube opening is loud in the silent flat. Q waits, forehead pushed to Bond's shoulder, and lets the shudder pass through him as calloused fingers circle his hole. The muscle flutters and the tip of Bond's finger dips in. Q groans as it prods a little further, hooking and twisting.

He works him open slowly. When Q begins to grind down, Bond uses his free hand to hold his hips steady. "Can you ride me?" he asks in lieu of explanation, Bond's voice whiskey smooth in Q's ear.

Q nods, lank, sweat damp curls brushing over Bond's chest. Then, when Bond removes his fingers, both hands going to Q's hips, he rises up. For a moment, he is nervous. He hovers on the edge of aligning himself and expects Bond to get impatient. However, the agent only offers him a smile and a gentle squeeze to his hips.

Carefully, Q takes Bond in, each inch marked by a long slow sigh escaping the man below him. For his part, Q bites his lip, holding back until one hand on his hip, the one still cool with lube, comes up to pull that lip from his mouth. Q nips at the finger before throwing his head back in a moan as Bond thrusts up, unable to take the agonizingly slow slide down anymore.

They continue with Q setting the pace, slow ad steady and unhurried, so that he can savor each twitch of Bond's thighs below him. He corrects his angle slowly with some encouragement from Bond who, at the first rapturous shiver from Q when his prostate is hit, clutches the hips tight and keeps him there. He thrusts up to meet with marksman accuracy. He hits that bundle of nerves again and again until Q is beginning to see white.

As the end races towards him--blinding, unrelenting, and completely predictable like the rush of high tide--Q swears he hears Bond whisper his name. His real name.

He climaxes on the heels of its syllables, Bond following him with a deep groan. Q falls onto his side beside Bond, feeling dirty but relaxed and sated. He lays his palm flat on Bond's chest, pinky touching the edge of that new wound. It is burning his fingertip and all he wants to do is smother it. But it's not on fire. Bond's not dead. And Q can't quite reconcile all that.

So he decides he should just sleep. Bond turns towards him, his smile dazzling with boyish charm.

"I love you." he says. "I came back for you."

Q's brow furrows. Bond kisses the tension away, but only externally. Because now that Q is listening this script sounds familiar. It sounds almost too perfect. He tries to think if it's the one Bond plays on missions or one of those awful tutorials they offer in the training manual. Or if this is one of Q's favorite fantasies, bastardized to fit the narrative of his current life.

"I'm dreaming, aren't i?" Q asks Bond.

The boyish smile wavers, then saddens.

"i thought you had enough of dreaming of me drowning. Isn't this better?"

Q tastes water. It floods into his lungs and mouth and he coughs. Everything is dry around him, but he feels as if he is drowning on the inside. Bond is pulling at his shoulder. He is shouting his name of the rush of the waves. His real name, the one no one knows. He is shouting it but the water is drowning it out, twisting until its a soft whisper of:

"I've been hit"

"I've been hit"

" _I've been hit_ "

Q forces his eyes shut, prays for consciousness. And when it comes a few seconds later, he sits up, the tears finally falling onto his chest and no longer into his mouth. The pressure in his chest doubles. And he thinks that all the scars on Bond's chest could never hurt as much as this.

"Why couldn't you resurrect one last time?!" Q wails.

And it's only the rain outside that answers him.


End file.
